


Of Remorse and Absolution

by throughthenight



Category: Wentworth - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughthenight/pseuds/throughthenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Erica suffers from her own betrayal and attempts to make amends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Remorse and Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> These two just will not get out of my head.

You spend the time in your office alternating between staring at the security camera images on your computer screen (just one square in particular) and berating yourself for staring. You watch as Franky lays there, eyes on the ceiling, and hate yourself. And then you hate yourself for caring.

It’s fair to say you’re not coping very well.

The guilt sits like a weight on your chest, makes breathing painful. You last a week before you give in and find yourself standing at the door to Franky’s new cell. The look on her face when notices you is like a kick to the stomach. You thought she would be angry, pissed at the injustice of it all, annoyed at her segregation and the loss of her privileges. You didn’t expect this; the hurt on Franky’s face, like the only thing about this whole situation that matters is that you didn’t fight for her.

You had been full of the good intention to confess your betrayal, the whole terrible story, in the hope she would understand and you could get a night’s sleep for the first time in a week. But you see Franky and all good intentions fly out of the window and, oh, isn’t _that_ a familiar feeling?

The lie burns up your chest as she moves closer to the door, scorches your tongue as it leaves your mouth.

“I didn’t have a choice, Franky. There was nothing I could do; I couldn’t prove it wasn’t you. I’m so sorry.”

(At least the last part doesn’t scald on its way out.)

Franky smiles sadly and you suppose it might be the first time she’s smiled at you and you haven’t felt it low in your stomach. This time you feel it in your chest and find you miss the inappropriateness of before. (Although, really, is one more appropriate than the other?)

Finally Franky speaks, her voice flat and emotionless and so unlike her.

“I thought you had my back, Er- Ms. Davidson.”

And oh, that hurts, sharp and bright behind your ribs. A flash of that conversation in your mind, the way Franky – Franky, this hard-ass who rules her side of the prison through threats of violence she has no qualms following through on – cried for the simple reason that you doubted her, thought she’d do something to hurt you. You remember how you realised then, with Franky’s desperate insistence of her loyalty and your own complete trust in her promises, that this _thing_ between you was about more than Franky’s constant flirtations and your own illicit dreams.

You feel a whole new wave of guilt, can’t bear to look at her anymore. You don’t want to cry in front of her, don’t want her to know how deeply she wormed her way into your affections with her smiles and her jokes and her loyalty. You force another apology past the lump in your throat and leave.

You wipe the tears away at your desk, watching as Franky resumes her position on the bed, staring upwards.

 

* * *

 

Another week passes before Franky is returned to her unit. After that, only a day before she’s in medical; bruises on her face and torso, a split lip. The other women hadn’t taken well to the ‘news’ that Franky was responsible for what happened with Toni and Kaiya.

You watch from the doorway of your office as she’s led in, showing none of her usual fight. You see the blood drip down her chin and something inside of you breaks. The guilt is so overwhelming then, Franky’s blood on your hands, and you know you can’t do this any longer.

You wait until the end of the day, the prison quiet and the halls empty, and grab your keys. Franky’s in a solitary cell for her own protection and you’re glad the cameras only cover the hall outside, since you’re pretty sure you’re breaking a few rules just being here. It’s risky and stupid, but you just can’t bring yourself to care.

You unlock the door and slip inside, leaving it open lest it look even more suspicious. Franky can’t hide the surprise in her face; you think you see a little hope there too and it only makes you feel worse. You force the words out before you lose your nerve.

“Franky, I’m so sorry this happened to you. It’s... it’s all my fault. I know you didn’t give Toni the drugs. I know because... I know who did.”

Franky looks at you warily, her eyes distant. The bruising on her cheekbone makes your stomach turn.

“Toni already told me before who gave them to her... It was Mr Phelps. I couldn’t let that get out, you understand? I’d lose my job, Franky.”

You wince at the desperation in your voice, verging on begging, but you know you deserve it; that this is what you need to do. Franky’s face gives nothing away.

“I told Toni to say she found them and it was all fine, it was going away. But then she went and changed her mind, said it was you. I couldn’t prove her wrong without telling everyone about Phelps and that I covered it up, and Vera heard Toni accuse you and I had the bosses breathing down my neck...”

You know you sound practically hysterical now, and at some point you’d taken a step or two forward, your arms reaching out awkwardly into the space between you.

“I didn’t know what else I could do, Franky... I’m so sorry, I feel awful.... Please say something...”

Franky jumps up from the bed at that, right into your personal space. Even in this most terrible of situations, her nearness affects you as it always does and you close your eyes against the feeling.

“I trusted you, Erica! I thought we had some sort of connection, you were supposed to help me get back on track. I thought you cared about me, just a little bit. I thought I was more to you than a rehabilitation project to make you look good in the press. I guess not.”

Her voice gets louder and louder and she steps closer as she speaks; forces you back against the wall.

“Franky, I’m sor-“

“No, Erica, stop it! I’m supposed to be starting a law degree, yeah? I worked my ass off, Erica, you know that. You were supposed to be my mentor and instead you sold me out to save your own skin!”

Franky looks hard at you then, backed against the wall of her cell. You feel your own eyes stinging with tears and you’re sure you must look ashamed because the feeling is suffocating you, and how could it not show?

She lets out a loud groan of frustration. You can see her control slipping away. It doesn’t even occur to you to be scared of her. (It probably ought to.)

“God, you know the worst part is I can’t even be properly angry at you. You completely fucked me over and I still look at you and I- what are you doing?”

The guilt, the shame, Franky’s hurt and anger, the hint of the bruise on her stomach peeking out the bottom of her tank top, her words cutting into you over and over, the stress of lying- not just about the drugs, but your feelings for her... Your brain shuts down. You stop calculating the consequences of every move. Just this once, you let go.

That’s how you find your hand on Franky’s jaw line, your thumb hovering over the cut on her lip. You absolutely, completely refuse to think. (One thought sneaks its way through: _show her how sorry you are, show her you mean it_.)

You let your thumb brush over the broken skin, barely touching. Franky winces anyway and the need to make her feel better hits you like a train.

You lean in ( _don’t think, don’t think, don’t think_ ) and replace your thumb with the soft press of your own lips. You feel the restraint in Franky’s measured breaths and her refusal to respond. And you feel the second she gives up.

She surges at you, body pinning you to the wall, one strong thigh between yours, her mouth insistent and warm. All that lust and tension, built over months of suggestive comments; Franky’s smirks and your own flushed cheeks. It all led here. If you weren't still trying so very hard not to think, you would remark at the inevitability of it all. Franky would do that thing with her tongue and you’d wonder if you ever stood a chance.

Her mouth leaves yours, but before you can whine at the loss of her, she moves to your neck. You grasp at her shoulders, nails digging in, as she bites down. You revel in the way it almost hurts. She’s going to leave a mark, seems determined to do so, and it feels like closure from her lips. Like this is your punishment; to spend a week or two branded by her for everyone to see. You accept it greedily, accept the consequences it will have for your life, for your relationship with Mark. It’s what you deserve, and you encourage it.

When she’s satisfied with your retribution, she returns to your lips and you taste blood. She slides her hands into your hair, and pulls. 


End file.
